


trust • fall

by KuroFae



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aftercare, Blindfolds, Bondage, Control Issues, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, Madeline LeFleur is not involved in any of the above, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Safeword Use, Safewords, Spoilers for Episode 166: Delta, Therapy, these tags all make it look super intense but its actually really positive and hopeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroFae/pseuds/KuroFae
Summary: Five things Cecil knows about the aftermath of Lot 37 and one thing he doesn't.Or, a positive and optimistic exploration of PTSD, therapy, recovery, and bondage.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	trust • fall

• 1 •

He knows he has issues with control.

Long gone are the days where he could tease Madeline LeFleur over the airwaves for her fruitless attempts to grasp control over anything in her life - sips of her coffee, perfectly folded fliers, whatever she could manage to latch on to in her buzz of a life. He hasn’t even tried to rediscover that joking rapport, not since the auction. Back when it was still a habit, when he’d jab at her on the air and later buy her another coffee (because really, she was aware of it and it was an in-joke), he hadn’t had any idea what it was _like_. Even Madeline hadn’t. Not really.

Sure, Madeline was aware that she compulsively wiped specs of dust off her phone screen and drank her coffee abnormally quickly in a vain attempt to make up for the fact that she had wanted to be an author who wrote all evening on the sun-washed deck of a little bungalow in Old Town, and instead was the Executive Director of a dying Tourism Board. She had a _therapist_. She was _aware_.

But she hadn’t had her free will auctioned off. And at the time, neither had Cecil.

• 2 •

He knows he had no idea how to relieve the new burning itch for order, direction, and management under his skin.

He’d been compulsively rearranging the coasters on the coffee table for the fourth time in as many days. He’d been scowling while doing it, too, because even then, only a few months since the opening night of the New Old Opera House, he knew it was an issue. Carlos had been pretending to read something that was definitely _not_ municipally approved, but both of them knew he was really watching the near-frantic stacking and re-stacking of little plastic cards under Cecil’s fingertips. 

“Would you be interested in me trying to help with that?” Carlos had asked.

“With what?” Cecil had asked. Snapped, really. He had snapped, and then immediately regretted the snapping. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Help with what?”

The corner of Carlos’ mouth had twitched up, a silent acknowledgement of his apology. “With your need to be in control of something. Or at least, the need I hypothesize you're feeling.”

“I…” Cecil stared at the coasters. There was no order they _should_ be in, but at the same time, there absolutely was. “Was it that obvious?”

“To me, yes,” Carlos said, and shut the book with a soft _snick_ of the cover, “Only because you’re you, and I’m me. When it comes to you, I’m very observant. Observant is the-”

“-Eighth thing a scientist is, yes.” Cecil finished for him. 

“I think you finishing my sentences is just one more observation for my growing pile of evidence suggesting that you could really use a break from your need for control,” Carlos had run a hand down the back of Cecil's neck, firm and comforting. “I can try to help. Only if you want me to. Only things you want, nothing you don’t want.” 

Cecil hummed, letting the tension in his shoulders bleed out under Carlos’ hand as it ran up and down his vertebrae. “What are you suggesting, bunny?”

Carlos' hand pauses, now just a grounding pressure. “Remember that time I blindfolded you?"

"You _know_ I remember the time you blindfolded me."

Carlos grinned. "Have you ever tried bondage?”

• 3 •

He knows flipping the narrative helps.

“How are you doing, honey?” Carlos asks, still out of breath and tucked up against Cecil’s side.

“Mmmhaa,” Cecil responds, still fairly incoherent, and flashes him a weak thumbs up. 

Carlos laughs, high and clear, and grabs his wrist to gently rub the feeling back into it. “I’m glad. That was amazing, babe, you did so well.”

“Y’make it easy,” Cecil slurs, and feels Carlos’ pleased grin against his neck. 

“I’m very happy to hear that,” Carlos breathes against his overheated skin, and then sits up. “I’m gonna go get you some water, but I'll be right back. Is that okay?”

“It's perfect. I love you.”

“And I love you! Okay, I'll be right back, sweetie!"

Carlos scampers off to the bathroom with a final kiss to his temple, and Cecil settles against the sheets and lets the sweat evaporate off his skin. There is no dancing, fiery itch under it; no need to manipulate his surroundings. He's soothed. He hadn't had to worry about control being taken from him by force - he'd given it up willingly. He'd made the decision. And Carlos - Oh, Carlos, sweet and attentive and observant and careful and devoted Carlos - had taken that decision; that trust, into his cupped palms and made Cecil feel _loved_ for having given it over. 

It helps to make the narrative about love and about trust and about Carlos, instead of about control. As Carlos helps him sit up to drink, Cecil drapes his full weight into him, nuzzling against his neck. 

"Baby," he says, clutching at Carlos' arm "Kitten, sweetheart, Carlos."

Carlos squeezes his shoulder. "I'm right here, love. What is it?"

Cecil grins lopsidedly up at him. "Community Calendar: Soon, maybe Tuesday, we're doing that again."

Carlos grins, and laughs, and kisses him breathless again.

• 4 •

He knows that this is not a full solution, nor is it addressing the root cause of his anxiety.

The first time they try the blindfold with the cuffs, Cecil has a panic attack. Neither of them are at fault - Cecil thought he was ready, they’d worked up to it; talked about it. It'd been handled well; Carlos had done everything right. Honestly, Cecil's not sure there was even a full second of time between hearing their safeword in his own voice through the blood pounding in his ears and the blindfold being tugged off his face. 

Cecil just doesn't know _why_. Was it just too much, too soon? Maybe not enough time had passed? Maybe sitting up against the headboard was too similar to sitting in a plush seat in the opera house and a satin mask over his eyes was too similar to dimmed light and a drawn curtain? 

“I didn’t think it would - I didn’t think I’d… react like that. I thought it would be more about the _sight_ and less about the _control_.” Cecil says bitterly afterwards, once he’s calmed down. He’s wrapped up in a throw blanket and curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed. Carlos sits cross-legged on the floor facing him, running his fingers through his hair both to sooth and to untangle it from Cecil’s panicked tugging. Brushing each other's hair is standard in aftercare for them at this point, but it still makes pleasant tingles run along Cecil’s scalp and down his spine.

He feels a bit stupid for thinking that, really. The entire premise for this was to remove his sense of control; to let him relax.

“Maybe for some it’s that simple,” Carlos muses back, and leans forward to press a soft kiss over the bridge of Cecil’s nose. “But for you, it absolutely could be about control. People are different; we all have our divisions from each other. It’s why we’re called individuals.”

Cecil lets the fondness in Carlos' voice settle over him like a second blanket, and stops feeling foolish.

• 5 •

He knows therapy helps.

He knows it helps, even if sometimes cognitive behavioural therapy feels like the saccharine cousin of re-education, even if he struggles and falls and has setbacks. He knows it helps, personally, because he's watched Abby go through therapy and come out better equipped for her life and more confident. He knows it scientifically, too, because he came home after a particularly difficult session and had bawled into Carlos' chest that nothing would _ever_ help. 

"If you really don't want to go, babe, you don't have to," Carlos had soothed, "It only works if you're willing. But can I show you something scientific?" 

Cecil had never said no to that question and cannot see a future where he ever will. So, he spent nearly four hours curled up against Carlos' side scrolling through PubMed, which seemed to be one of those science gossip rags he always saw at gas station kiosks. Cecil had never bothered to pick one up before, since he really hadn't been interested in the whole aesthetic-obsessed science world before he met Carlos. 

When he shows up to his next session, it's with anecdotal testimonials and a wealth of statistics, and he is _willing_. 

And honestly? He improves. The Ralphs switches back to their auction based system for a few days and he's comfortable enough to go with Carlos and wait outside to help carry the groceries home. He manages to have a whole conversation with Frances Donaldson in front of the antique shop with the antiques playing right there in the window! Carlos ties him to the headboard and blindfolds him and takes him apart more thoroughly than Cecil knew was possible, and it is _great_.

He can really tell it's starting to work. And then Delta Flight 18713 arrives.

• +1 •

He doesn't know how long it will take him to recover from this.

He knows he will, at least to some degree. Carlos forwards him links to any PubMed articles about PTSD he sees and Cecil is getting pretty knowledgeable about it, so he _knows_ he will recover. He will get better. He will be better equipped to handle life. He will be more confident. There are always setbacks. 

Recovery is a spiral staircase, not an uphill trek. It spirals and spirals, and sometimes a step gives way beneath his feet, and he falls through the rotten boards of a trigger and lands, hard and bruising, a floor below where he was not even a second before. The fall is terrifying. The landing hurts. But each time, he will get up and continue to climb.

It's continuous. There is no end. There is only climbing, falling, and trusting in himself that he will get up and continue again. Recovery is not curative. 

And really, that's _okay_. He will never be 'cured'. PTSD is a part of his life and it is something he works around, with, and in spite of. Kind of like the hour of keening he does at Station Management's door every day. Both are tiring, he'd prefer to not have to do or experience either, and sometimes they cause absolutely _horrific_ mental suffering. But Cecil has been keening at Station Management's door for longer than he can comprehend, and he can do it. He is capable. He is confident. 

He can get there with control, too. He can meet Madeline LeFleur for coffee and commiserate, even if their experiences are wildly different. He can go to therapy and be coached through re-framing his thoughts. He can hand over his trust, and let Carlos hold it safely for the night; can kiss him senseless and be soothed, just for an evening.

He'll recover. 

He just doesn't know how long it will take.

**Author's Note:**

> You know how people say to write what you know? This is the exact opposite of that. I have absolutely no experience with either PTSD or bondage, so I wrote a fic about... PTSD and bondage.
> 
> This fic was conceived from the fandom's reaction to the handcuff/safeword mentions in 166: Delta. I was really frustrated by the number of posts on tumblr I saw of people being thoroughly scandalized or borderline horrified by this "reveal" (in quotation marks because I'm sorry but _what_ did you think "I’ve learned a lot of neat things while wearing a blindfold!" in 95: Zookeeper was referencing?), which I thought was an unwarranted reaction and felt... very weird... to me? So anyways, here's a... positive perspective on The Great BDSM Reveal of 2020. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://kurofae.tumblr.com) and I make art, like [this piece](https://kurofae.tumblr.com/post/615695316404060160/goodnight-night) I drew for 166: Delta! [flashing gif warning in link]


End file.
